


The Quiet Russian

by JantoJones



Series: Lengthier Briefings [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 06:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20719913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: Illya is rescued after being missing for months.





	The Quiet Russian

Napoleon Solo had begun to doubt that his partner would ever be found. It had been five months since contact had been lost with Illya Kuryakin, and in that time there hadn't been a single lead. Solo had continued to maintain that Illya was alive somewhere, but as time went on, the doubts slowly crept in. He was certain that there was no THRUSH involvement in Illya's disappearance as there had been absolutely no chatter. If their feathered friends had taken or killed him, they would have broadcast the news loud and far.  
Returning from a mission, where he'd had to maintain radio silence until back at HQ, Napoleon found air of excitement in the building.

"What's going on?" he asked the next person he came across.

"Haven't you heard?" Agent Pavey asked, with astonishment. "They've found him Napoleon. They've found Illya."

Solo set off at a run for Mr Waverly's office.

"Is he alive?"

"Sit down Mr Solo and I'll tell you what we know."

Illya had been on assignment in South America; a simple courier run. After the drop had been made, he'd returned to his hotel where he was arrested by the militia. Unbeknownst to Illya, there were three other Russians in his hotel, who were arms dealers. The authorities had no interest in differentiating between them. As far as they were concerned, they were all Russian, so they were all arms dealers. There was no trial and no lawyers; only summary justice. All four of them were sent to a government run prison mine. Once men went in to the mine, they rarely came out. As luck would have it, Illya Kuryakin would end up owing his life to THRUSH.

The nefarious organisation had taken an interest in the mine and its silver output, and had subsequently taken over control from the government. Naturally, because THRUSH were involved, U.N.C.L.E. became interested. Upon investigation, the assigned agents had been somewhat shocked to find an emaciated and beaten Kuryakin.

"That was two days ago," Mr Waverly continued. "As you were on radio silence, we were unable to let you know."

"When will he be back here?"

"Tomorrow morning, but he has a problem other than is physical distress."

Napoleon's stomach knotted with dread. Illya had been in that mine a long time; anything could have happened to him.

"Mr Kuryakin, along with the other prisoners, has been very seriously mistreated. They have been regularly beaten and severely malnourished. On top of this, not one of them has uttered a single word since we found them."

"I don't understand Sir."

Solo was well aware that Illya wasn't the most talkative of men, but to say nothing after being rescued seemed a little odd.

"They've all been conditioned," Mr Waverly explained. "From what we understand, after interrogating the guards, it seems the prisoners are punished if they speak. Mr Kuryakin is very resistant to torture, but he is only human, and five months of beatings will break anyone."

"So he can't communicate?"

"I never said that Mr Solo. He has been using paper and a pencil to write down what he wants to say."

************************************************************

The following morning, Illya was brought into medical feeling lost and afraid. The last couple of days had been a major culture shock for him. All his hopes of being found had left him weeks ago and he was unable to accept that he had been. In the space of three days, Illya had gone from being held underground, to the relatively airy and spacious confines of the U.N.C.L.E. medical suite; via a very noisy helicopter. His senses were reeling and his mind was clouded with confusion. Thankfully, the glaring lights of the suite had been dimmed, to protect his eyes as he hadn't seen much light for a long time.

Napoleon had to summon every ounce of will power to disguise his shock upon seeing Illya. The Russian had always been skinny, but now he was positively skeletal. He'd been cleaned up and given a shave and a haircut before being transferred to New York, but it did nothing to improve how he looked. Then there was the expression in Illya's eyes. The man was clearly terrified.

"Welcome back Tovarisch," he said, as brightly as he could. "We thought we'd lost you for good."

Illya glared at Solo with obvious confusion. He recognised his friend easily enough, but couldn't understand why he was standing in front of him. Surely he'd given him up for dead long ago. He shook his head trying to dispel the hallucination, but it remained resolutely there. Reaching out a hand, Illya prodded at Napoleon's chest. Solo took hold of the hand.

"I'm real Illya," he told him, softly. "I'm here, you're here and you're safe."

Finally, the truth seemed to get through to Illya's foggy thoughts. He opened his mouth to say something, but immediately closed it again. Speaking was forbidden. Dropping his head in submission, Illya awaited punishment for his transgression. Napoleon let go of his partner's hand and gave him a supportive shoulder squeeze. He was dismayed to feel Illya flinching away from the touch.

"Look at me Tovarisch."

Illya obeyed at once, much to Napoleon's concern. During his careers in Russia, Illya would have obeyed orders without hesitation. At U.N.C.L.E. however, he often took advantage of the luxury of occasionally being able to question orders; unless, of course, it was during a fast moving situation.

"I'm not going to force anything Illya," he told him. "But you must know you're safe here and you're allowed to speak whenever you want. Hold on, I'll be right back."

Napoleon left the room momentarily and returned with a pad and pen. He hand them to Illya.

"Until you're ready, use this."

Illya accepted the pad with a hesitant smile. His hand shook as he wrote, and although his penmanship had suffered through lack of practice, he managed to write a message for Napoleon.

_Sorry I'm late._

Solo snorted. "I think we can overlook it this once. Just don't do it again."

The American was heartened to see a genuine smile briefly appear on the Russian's face. If Illya could still joke, it gave him hope.

*************************************************

Illya was kept in medical for five days while he recovered enough strength to allow him to be moved. It was testament to his subservient state of mind that he'd done everything that was asked of him without complaint. He was still unable to speak, though he constantly tried, with the encouragement of his partner. Frustration often got to him, but Napoleon always got him to calm down with a few games of chess, or by regaling him with outrageous tales of his latest female conquest. The senior agent could've believed Christmas had come early when he received a trademarked Kuryakin eye roll. It wasn't much, but it was a spark.

A psychiatrist, Dr Francis, visited the Russian twice a day. He was aware of the CEA's attempts to get Illya to talk, so didn't push him any further. Instead, he encouraged the agent to start making decisions of his own. It started out with simple things, such as what he wanted to eat or what clothes he would like to wear. On the fifth day, following a consultation with the medics, Dr Francis called a meeting with Mr Waverly and Napoleon.

"Ordinarily," he began. "I would have Mr Kuryakin moved to a psychiatric unit. However, I want him to regain his independence. He's already making his own choices with regards to clothes and food and he has even stopped asking permission to use the bathroom. With your approval Mr Waverly, I would like to offer Mr Kuryakin the use of one of the guest rooms. I will give him the choice between that and the psych ward."

"Illya would rather die than end up in a psych ward," Napoleon commented. "If he chooses the guest suite then we will know that he is truly fighting."

"Exactly," Dr Francis agreed. "It will be the start of him taking control of himself again. But, don't get complacent yet gentlemen. That young man has a difficult journey ahead of him, and there is no guarantee he'll get through in one piece."

Mr Waverly readily approved to the use of a guest room, and sent someone to organise it straight away.

"I do insist on posting a guard outside however."

Napoleon and the doctor both agreed it would be best. Illya was far from ready to face the world yet.

"Although," Solo mused. "I would say the first time he tries to escape will be a great leap forward."

"I have to concur," Waverly responded, with the faintest of smiles. "But we won't make it easy for him."

**************************************************************************************

Dr Francis explained to Illya what his options were and told him the decision was his and his alone. The Russian looked to his partner for guidance, only for Napoleon to tell him he had to decide for himself. As hoped, Illya opted for the guest room. It was bad enough that he was already being visited daily by a head doctor; the thought of being surrounded by more of them was too much to contemplate.

"There are some rules, however," Dr Francis warned. "Firstly, you're not allowed to leave your quarters unless accompanied."

"Don't think that you're a prisoner," Napoleon chipped in. "Although we can't let you out of the building yet, if you want to come to our office or go to your lab you can. There will be security outside your room to escort you, but don't take that the wrong way."

Illya nodded his agreement at the first rule. He wasn't happy about being guarded, but the part of him that was still him understood the need for it. Besides, he'd become very used to having every move monitored. His thoughts had finally begun to reassert themselves through the fog of confusion, but there still seemed to be something pulling him back. What was frustrating him most was his inability to speak even a single word. Illya had finally accepted that he was back from hell and that he was safe, but there was a mental block when  
it came to speech. He knew several languages, yet not one would come to his tongue. Not even his own name was there for him.

"The second rule," continued Dr Francis. "Is that you must attend any and all medical appointments you're given. I know you and medical don't get on, but if you miss just one, I will send you straight to psychiatric."

Napoleon knew it was probably an empty threat and was actually looking forward to the day his friend protested at having to see the medics again.

"Finally," the psychiatrist concluded, handing Illya a notebook. "I want you to keep a journal. I don't need to know your every thought, just the ones that come to mind when to try to speak. Are you happy with all of that?"

Illya nodded, though the idea of writing down his thoughts was more terrifying to him than never speaking again. He'd always been so guarded when it came to what was in his head, but he knew he had to try anything that could bring his voice back.

"Okay," Dr Francis said, standing up. "I'm sure Mr Solo will help you settle into your temporary quarters. Hopefully, it won't be too long before we can send you home."

Illya abruptly jumped off the bed and backed himself into the corner; shaking his head vigorously.

"Illya, what's wrong?"

"Mr Kuryakin, please calm down."

The doctor beckoned Napoleon over to the other side of the room.

"I don't like that reaction," he confided, quietly. "I would have thought he would want to go home as soon as possible. If he is going to react like this I may have to rescind my original recommendation and have him committed."

"Don't do that Doc," Napoleon pleaded. "I have a theory."

Picking up the pen and pad, Solo handed them to Illya.

"Tell me what the problem is Tovarisch."

Illya hesitantly took the pad before furiously writing on it.

_I can't go back to Russia. Not now. I WILL get over this, if it's the last thing I do._

The message stabbed at Napoleon's heart. It was so hard to see his normally stoic and centred friend so panicked and unsure. He showed the words to Dr Francis.

"Please forgive me Mr Kuryakin," he said, with a reassuring smile. "I should have been clearer. When I mentioned sending you home, I meant to your apartment. Not Russia."

Sensing that Illya would calm down if he left, he bid the two men goodbye. Napoleon took hold of Illya's shoulders and manoeuvred him back to the bed.

"I shall make you a promise Illya," he told him firmly. "And as CEA I have the authority to make this promise. We will never send you back to Russia. If by a stroke of bad luck you never speak again, you will still have a place at U.N.C.L.E. You, my dear Illya Nickovitch, are an asset to us. You're a scientist, a linguist and a pyromaniac, amongst other things."

Illya quickly scribbled something on the pad and held it up.

_A smart Russian?_

Napoleon laughed. "Yeah, that too. Come on Chum, let's get you moved."

**************************************************

The journey to the guest quarters was an ordeal in itself. The corridors were full of people, all rushing one way or another, and for Illya it was a shock to the system to see so many people at once. Luckily, everyone in the building was well used to not getting too close to the Russian, but it didn't stop them from staring. The details of his long absence were not common knowledge, but there were plenty of rumours flying about. Illya tried to hide himself between Napoleon and the wall, struggling with the overwhelming sensation of being surrounded. Feeling the anxiety radiating from his partner, Solo attempted to shield him from the prying eyes. Several people averted their gaze following a warning glare from the CEA.

Outside the suite, which was to be Illya's temporary home, stood a section 3 agent. He was well known to Illya, as they often sparred together in the gym, and had been given this duty deliberately. Dr Francis postulated that it would be better for the Russian to be guarded by people he was already comfortable around. There would be five agents in total, working in rotation. Each of them had been given a full and frank briefing on the situation. Illya's security clearance was still valid, allowing him access to everywhere he was allowed before, but he had to be escorted. Each man was told to be armed only with sleep darts. Should Illya attempt to leave and refuse all efforts to persuade him not to, the agents were instructed to dart him. They were to avoid any form of physical restraint as it could be detrimental to his psychological wellbeing.

"Hey there Little Comrade," Agent Davies greeted his sparring partner. "It's good to see you looking so well."

Illya smiled broadly and gave the man a little wave of greeting. Usually, Kuryakin detested it when Americans called him Comrade, because it was usually said in a derogatory manner. Truth be told, the first time Davies had said it, it had been meant as an insult. Over time however, the two of them had gained a friendship and a respect for one another. Davies was probably one of the few people who get away with using the term; just like Napoleon being the only person who was allowed to call him Tovarisch, which more or less meant the same thing.

The senior agents entered the room and Illya was surprised to find he'd been given a VIP suite. It comprised of three rooms; a bedroom, a bathroom and a main living area. Apart from there being no windows, it was better than his apartment. He looked quizzically at Napoleon and gestured to the space.

"We didn't want you to feel too cooped up," Solo explained. "I know you'll probably be reluctant to go to the commissary, so whenever you're hungry just let whoever is outside know, and they'll get it sent up."

_I'm hungry now. Illya wrote on his pad._

"There's a surprise. Well, it is Tuesday; do you remember what they serve on a Tuesday?"

Illya nodded and wrote a list of what he wanted. Napoleon looked at the request and sighed.

"If you eat all this, you'll end up heavier than you were before we lost you. Not that it would be a bad thing."

Napoleon chuckled before heading out to get the food himself. Outside, he was stopped by Agent Davies.

"Erm. . . Napoleon, I have to admit to being a little concerned."

"What about?"

"I know that we're all hoping Illya will get his act together and attempt to escape, but I'm worried about how he'll do it. I know he won't kill me, but he is quite adept at incapacitation."

Napoleon patted Davies on the arm and tried to reassure him. The problem was, he was right. Illya was just too good at his job.

*****************************************************************

For the next week, Illya spent his time either in the suite or in his lab. His research work allowed him to forget his troubles for a while. That in itself was a scary thing for him. He was still not quite used to being his own man, and although his personality and demeanour were returning, there was always a doubt in his mind. He still expected punishments even though none were forthcoming. Illya had continued with his efforts to speak, but his own mind thwarted him. As instructed he'd written down his thoughts with each failure. Every entry in the journal was more or less the same; fear of electrocution. It had been discovered that the control method was the simple cattle prod. The mine's overseers had taken sadistic delight in using the devices on a man's most sensitive areas. Even though he knew they weren't in a position to torture him anymore, the Russian still feared their reprisals.

Sitting in his suite one evening, Illya came to a sudden realisation. He was still a prisoner. Not just of his own mind, but also of U.N.C.L.E. Admittedly, everyone had been very kind and considerate to him, and he had everything he could wish for. The only thing he didn't have was freedom. It had been so long since he'd been outside and he craved the feel of fresh air in his lungs. As soon as the thought came to him, Illya began to feel panicked. He had to get out; needed to get out. The possibility of punishment presented itself but he dismissed it as a risk worth taking. He decided that his only course of action was to escape. Feeling proud of himself for having made the decision, Illya set about formulating a plan.

****************************************************************

Napoleon cursed the ringing phone for interrupting a rather pleasant daydream.

"Solo," he barked into it.

"He got out," said the voice from the other end.

Napoleon didn't have to ask who the he in question was, though he was rather concerned that Illya had managed to get outside without any interference at all.

"Are you tracking him?"

They'd hidden trackers in Illya's shoes, in preparation for this moment

"Yes Sir."

"Okay, I'll go and fetch him back, you apprise Mr Waverly."

*****************************************************************

Illya got about three blocks from HQ before realising he'd made a huge mistake. The city was too big, too crowded and too noisy. He'd initially enjoyed the natural daylight and air, but everything else was an assault to the senses. Fighting off feelings of disorientation, Illya changed direction and started his journey back. He knew he wouldn't be physically punished for leaving, but he still wasn't relishing the idea of the apology he was going to have to make. They would probably restrict his movements around HQ, but he could live with that.

Breathing heavily in an effort to stave off an imminent panic attack, Illya was surprised to see Napoleon walking towards him. He was even more surprised to see that the senior agent was smiling. Surely he should be angry at him. As he raised a hand to wave, Illya's innate sense of danger alerted him to something happening further up the street. Despite the traffic, a green Volkswagen van was hurtling down the road, apparently out of control. It mounted the sidewalk, heading in the direction of Napoleon.

Solo's usual survival instincts failed him completely as he was too busy concentrating on retrieving his errant Russian. He saw the look on Illya's face and wrongly assumed that his expression of alarm was down to him. From his vantage point, Illya watched as the scene played out, seemingly in slow motion. He was too far away to drag his partner out of the way. He had to make do with the only option available to him.

"BEHIND YOU NAPOLEON!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

**************************************************

Napoleon span round and saw the VW van careening towards him. Thanks to his excellent reflexes he managed to dive out of the way with only inches to spare. The van crashed into a wall with the sickening sound of metal scraping against stone. Solo quickly regained his composure and ran to check on the driver of the vehicle. One look at the unfortunate man told Napoleon that he was beyond help; nobody's neck should be at that angle. Turning back to Illya, he found him hugging himself and shaking.

"Thank you Tovarisch, you saved my life yet again."

Illya looked his friend in the eye and tried to tell him he was more than welcome, but he couldn't form the words. They were there in his head, but they refused to reach his mouth. 

His confusion was evident in his expression. He'd somehow managed to call out to Napoleon but was once again silent.

"Hey, we'll work it out," Napoleon soothed. "I'll tell you this though; I am not putting myself in mortal danger every time I want to hear you say something."

Despite feeling incredibly lost and anxious, Illya smiled at the joke. He just couldn't understand how he was able to shout out, but it gave him hope. Having not brought his pad out with him, Illya had to resort to pointing towards HQ in order to ask if they could go back.

"In a few minutes," Solo told him. "I'll have to talk with the police first about this crash. Are you ok to wait a while, or do you want to head back on your own?"

Illya pointed to the ground, indicating that he would wait. His need to get back was almost as strong as his need to get out had been, but he was a professional. The police would need their witness statements, and he was perfectly capable of answering yes/no questions if need be. While his partner consulted with the police, he leant against the wall and tried to figure out how he'd managed to say anything.

Concentrating hard, Illya formed his mouth into the shape needed to say the first syllable of his name. He was shaking with the effort but he finally made a sound.

"Ee,"he said, ignoring the strange looks he got from people nearby. "Ee, ee, ee, ee."

The Russian had never felt joy like it, and, after trying ee a few more times, he moved on to the next syllable.

"Lee, lee, lee, lee, lee. Ee lee, ee lee, ee lee ya."

By this time, some of the people who had been gawping at the crash had turned to the weird man make weird noises. He looked fairly normal but you never could tell these days.

"ILLYA!" He yelled, with a maniacal grin on his face. "Illya."

Napoleon returned and found the Russian shouting his name at random strangers. While he was very pleased that Illya was finding his voice, he really didn't need all the attention.

"Let's go Chum; you're scaring the nice people."

"Illya," replied the blond agent, pointing to his mouth.

"Tovarisch, it is marvellous that you're starting to speak," Napoleon said, as he steered his partner in the direction of HQ. "But you need to practice somewhere a little less conspicuous."

By the time they reached Del Floria's, Illya had progressed to being able to say his whole name, as well as Napoleon's and Mr Waverly's. His joy vanished though just before they stepped inside.

"What's the matter?" Napoleon asked, suddenly concerned.

Illya carefully arranged the words in his head and slowly began to speak.

"Broke rules," he uttered, dropping his head in shame. "Can't leave. I left. Punished?"

"No Illya," Napoleon assured him. "You won't be punished. Come inside and let me explain a few things to you."

************************************************************************

Agent Davies was waiting in Illya's suite when they arrived. He was rubbing the back of his neck where Illya had delivered his incapacitating blow. The Russian took a deep breath while he formulated his apology.

"Sorry . . . if I hurt you," he said contritely. "Please forgive . . . me."

When Davies had woken up and found Illya missing, his first thought was that he was going to get fired. Then he remembered that it was precisely what was supposed to happen. The agent immediately had his tracker located before contacting Solo. Everyone had been surprised about just how quickly Illya had been able to get out of the building. It had only taken him three and a half minutes, which had prompted Mr Waverly to initiate a comprehensive security review.

"No apology necessary Little Comrade, it is great to hear your voice again," Agent Davies beamed as he spoke. "Just remember though, next time we spar, I'll be looking for revenge."

Illya smiled and shook Davies' hand. "I look . . . forward to it."

As they had passed through reception, Napoleon had asked Janine if she would call Mr Waverly and Dr Francis and ask them if they would come to Illya's room. Both men arrived shortly after they did. Illya instantly became agitated, thinking he was definitely in some kind of trouble.

"Please don't fret Mr Kuryakin," the Old Man told him. "We actually wanted you to leave."

This puzzled Illya. Why then did he have all the rules and security?

"We knew that, once you started to regain your sense of self, you would try to get away from here. It would be a sure sign to us that you were on the road to recovery. There is also the added bonus of your voice returning."

"And all it took was for me to almost get run down in the street," quipped Napoleon.

"Well if nothing else," Dr Francis added, "We've discovered a new therapy technique."

"You . . . wanted me . . . to escape?"

"Yes," Dr Francis affirmed. Your imprisonment and subsequent slavery made sure that you would always obey orders without question. The Illya we know, also obeys orders, but will occasionally question them or disobey them completely."

"Not that I condone that sort of behaviour," Mr Waverly muttered gruffly. Although, he often allowed his senior agents a little leeway, because their judgement was usually sound.

"You decided for yourself that you'd had enough," the psychiatrist continued. "Despite the fear of punishment, you broke your conditioning and did what you felt you needed to."

"So I'm . . . cured?"

"Not quite, but you're well on the way and I'll still need you attend a few therapy sessions. Illya, you haven't mentioned any nightmares. Have you been having any?"

Napoleon winced at the question. He knew that the Russian was plagued by nightmares, and had been since childhood. Somehow though, he managed to not let them get to him too much. He had long ago learned a way to manage and dismiss his night terrors, even use them to his advantage sometimes.

"Some," Illya admitted. "But they are . . . nothing compared to the . . . ones I usually have."

"Usually?" Dr Francis asked, making a mental note to dig deeper during Illya's next few consultations.

"Illya's family were killed by the Nazis," Napoleon explained. "He was raised in a Soviet state run orphanage."

Dr Francis didn't need to be told any more. The atrocities of those years were well known to most of the world. If the man had come through all that, it was amazing he was as sane  
as he was.

"I'm going home," Illya suddenly announced, loudly and clearly. His tone told the other men in the room that he would brook no argument.

"I personally would prefer you to stay a while longer," Dr Francis stated. "But I understand if you would rather not. Just promise me, that if you find yourself unable to cope with the outside world, you will tell one of us."

**************************************************************************

Illya had to wait a few more hours before he could go. As a gift to his friend, Napoleon and a couple of the housekeeping staff went to the Russian's apartment to give it a bit of an airing. No-one had been there for a while and it felt a little damp and musty. Not that Solo did any actual cleaning; he was just there to make sure no-one looked into anything they shouldn't.

While he waited, the Russian looked into the background of the man who had been killed in the van. He wanted to check that there was no connection to any of their enemies. It turned out he was simply a man who had taken something highly illegal before deciding to go out for a drive. It had been miraculous that no-one else was hurt.

Finally, after being away for several months, Illya Kuryakin stepped back into his apartment. He'd never been happier to see his little sanctuary.

"There's food in the fridge, vodka in the freezer and coffee in the pot," Napoleon told him. "I was thinking we could maybe get a some celebratory chinese food delivered, unless you want to be left to your own devices."

"I would love chinese food," Illya agreed. "As long as I can order it."

Napoleon couldn't help but smile. "Why do I get the feeling you're going to be a lot more talkative in the future?"


End file.
